


Coin Toss

by bbvqueen



Series: The Venom In Our Veins [5]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal, Asphyxiation, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bad end, Blood, Bondage, Breath Control, But also, Cigars, Complete irrevocable submission, Consensual Non-Consent, Consent Issues, Cum Eating, Disturbing Themes, Dom!BB, Dom/sub, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, FaceFucking, Gags, Gallons of blood, Gore, Identity Issues, Impact Play, Knife Play, M/M, Master/Slave, Mental Health Issues, Mindfuck, Nipple Torture, No Safeword No Limits 24/7 CNC, Object Penetration, Oral, Owner/property, POV Second Person, Physical Abuse, Piss Play, Predicament Bondage, Rape/Non-con Elements, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Sexual Torture, Smoking, Sounding, Sub!V, Subspace, Switching, Torture Porn, Unprotected BDSM, Verbal Abuse, Violence, Wax Play, Wet & Messy, bathroom use control, big boss gets wrecked, big boss is insane and thats okay, clothed dom naked sub, cock and ball torture, dark themes, dom!v, dragon tail whip, jacuzzi bubble bath funtimes, piss drinking, rope, spitting, sub!BB, the real victim is the hotel room, venom dies, venom topping big boss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-03-31 17:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13980393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbvqueen/pseuds/bbvqueen
Summary: There’s no such thing as luck.Set pre- and mid-Outer Heaven.(1994-1995)





	1. Head

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the end.

_Johannesburg, South Africa_

_Hartelus Tower Hotel, 1994_

It’s been a while since you walked among civilians, but you’re used to wearing costumes.

The radical change of the rendezvous site surprised you at first, but it’s a logical decision, when you think about it. There are a lot of eyes on him now - on you, too, and it’s usually easier to hide in a crowd. It makes sense to those watching if he travels to Johannesburg to personally negotiate business deals with the local PF’s and outsource some intel work to cover more ground in South Africa; to pretend like he doesn’t already have all the informants he could ever need.

He’s not supposed to be in the field himself, anymore, chained to a mahagony desk in a fancy office. You know how much he hates it, but he, too, is used to wearing costumes. The ability to blend in with your surroundings has always been a crucial part of your lives.

After traveling for half a day, you walk into the lobby of a five star hotel wearing dirty jeans and an old weathered leather jacket because you didn’t have anything nicer. A duffel bag is casually slung over your shoulder. Your weapons are concealed, but easily accessible.

When you approach the overworked receptionist, she eyes you suspiciously, blatantly. Stares rudely at your bandaged, unreadable face and feigns concern. You’re not their usual clientele, and it’s obvious she’d rather not have you here.

“I’m a guest,” you say, trying to sound friendly. Civilized. “Name’s John Doe. Was there anything left for me?”

She blinks owlishly. Probably considered calling security for a second. Then she just looks through some memos, and frowns at you.

“Is your brother Jack Doe?” She asks, with a thick accent.

“Yes.”

She seems unaware of how odd your family’s naming convention is. Or just used to cover identities. She quickly pages through the guest register.

“He checked in this afternoon. Left a key for you. Can I…”

You know she wants to ask you for your ID, before she decides she’d rather not. Must have been working here long enough to know when it’s better to conveniently forget about certain paragraphs in the company handbook, and not ask too many questions. Especially if that means you’ll be gone sooner. The guests wouldn’t appreciate an eyesore. She clears her throat and hands you a key to room 1313, 13th and highest floor. ‘Double superior executive suites’. Huh.

“Would you like me to call him about your arrival, sir?”

“No, thank you.”

“Alright… the elevators are down this hallway, on the left.” She points you in the right direction, then pretends to be busy. That’s fine with you. You make your way down the hallway, past a pair of hotel guests just exiting the elevator, dressed in a suit and an evening dress. The woman scrunches up her nose when she looks after you, and you continue on like you didn’t hear her asking her partner in a hushed voice why they’d allow a homeless bum in here - who knows what he might give them!

Honestly, you feel just as misplaced here as they correctly judge you to be, between expensive carpets and intricate ornaments. But that’s not what you’re here for. You’re here for Him, and your heart starts to beat a little faster when you ride the elevator all the way up to the 13th floor. Slow ambient jazz is playing softly in the background. It’s been almost a year - a busy one, too. You’ve counted the days and hours since he left you the last time, a number always present at the back of your mind. You clutch the key firmly in your palm. _1313_.

The doors open with a **ding** , a monotone voice announcing the current floor, and you exit, look around. Just when you thought it couldn’t become any more pretentious, it does - marble floors, sculptures and gold chandeliers and all that. You contemplate if blowing FOXHOUND’s budget on such pointless luxury is part of his plan to suck them dry, and smile to yourself. Yeah, that would be like him.

_1313._

A sign tells you you have to go to the north wing, suites N10-15. You round the next corner and find room 1310, and continue down that hallway. You seem to be the only person on this floor. A few steps later and you’ve arrived at your destination, N13, taking a deep breath.

Even if the backdrop is different and foreign, everything else will remain the same and familiar. Everything that’s just between the two of you, and it’s easy for you find comfort in that knowledge. You insert the key into the keyhole, turn it, and let yourself in.

It’s as pompous as you expected, and at least ten times the size of your modest quarters back at Outer Heaven, filled to the brim with designer furniture and meaningless embellishments. The tiniest scratch on that shelf alone could amount to hundreds of dollars in damage compensation, surely. You carefully close and lock the door behind you. The only sources of light are a small vintage lamp on the bedside table - the bed itself king size with untouched, pristine sheets, of course - and the digital alarm clock right next to it, displaying 19:42 in bright red numerals.

And bustling city lights reaching this high, flooding the room from the spacious balcony. Your attention is drawn to the glass panels and an open door when a soft evening breeze brushes over your cheek as soon as you begin to unravel the bandages around your head, rolling them up neatly. It’s become way too risky to run around baring your face outside of the compound you now call home. Another thing you’ve grown used to - it’s second nature to cover yourself to survive, just like the opposite had been true for an old friend of yours, long gone.

All of them are gone, safe for one, and he’s not even human. Waiting obediently for his master, because what else can he do. Doesn’t even have the limbs left to follow you here.

 _Your_ master, however, is waiting for you. You spot an unopened black suitcase in one corner of the room, and a dress jacket haphazardly thrown over the back of a chair. A fake passport, a walkman, a silver cigar case. Yes, this feels familiar - smells familiar. You know his brand.

It’s time to take off the costume for a while. You inhale and exhale once, deeply, relief easing the tension in your shoulders before you’ve even seen him, but feeling his presence - even intangible - is more than enough. You set down your bag, your key, your weapons, then step outside onto the balcony.

You look up at the night sky and admire the few visible stars for a couple of seconds. You do not speak first. When you look over at Big Boss, he’s hunched over the balustrade, looking down, a bottle of beer in one hand and a lit cigar in the other.

“Some guy had an ‘accident’ here last week. Got a big fat discount. If you look closely you can still see the blood smear where they scraped him off the pavement.”

You literally have no idea what to say. You _were_ going to say something about how beautiful the stars are, how breathtaking the view from up there must be. Something poetic. Obviously, that’s never the mood your Boss goes for, much less cares for.

He turns and acknowledges you formally, takes a heavy swig. A last drag and the still glowing cigar is flicked off the balcony. There’s even more gray in his hair and beard now than there was last year, and new wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His necktie is tugged loose, his collar not buttoned all the way up. He looks weary. Tired. And something else you find hard to pinpoint.

_What's with that gloomy expression?_

Is it just age?

“They let you in like that?”

“…Boss,” you say quietly, lowering your gaze.

He doesn’t ask you how you are. He rarely does. It’s all business first, and stress relief second. His shoulder brushes yours when he goes back inside, and you follow, tilting the door behind you rather than closing it. It’s a warm night, and you turn on the air conditioner, setting it to a comfortable temperature.

He, meanwhile, makes himself comfortable in an armchair after grabbing another bottle from the fridge. Only now do you spot two other empty bottles on a shelf - he’s been drinking, but he doesn’t seem drunk - yet. It’s not uncommon for him to drink, but if this is indeed his fourth bottle, you find it untypical, low percentage or not.

You watch him. None of this suits him. The lethargic attitude, the business suit, the sheer indulgence surrounding him.

Big Boss pops the bottle open with his zippo and chugs more liquor down. Leans back and spreads his legs wide, and tells you, like you were little more than a prostitute he invited up into his room: “Come here and suck me off.”

\- No, this isn’t familiar at _all_. You recognize the order, but this isn’t how it usually goes. An alarm instantly goes off in your head, and it makes you feel sick to your stomach. You are never freely given his cock like this, and never in the beginning. He never just leans back and lets you get him off, because _that_ doesn’t _actually_ get him off. He never just has sex with you, skipping the business part altogether. You know him too well for that.

“What’s wrong?” You ask softly, not defying the order, but ignoring it for now.

And all that response earns you is a glare that is outright murderous, and makes you hold your breath for a second. This is not play. Not foreplay, either. But you need to make sure he’s alright, take care of him, see past his lies and pretenses, sometimes.

Like he does with you.

Big Boss doesn’t share that mindset, though.

“Did I fucking stutter?” He drawls tersely, his endless patience long exhausted. The threat is audible, and severe. But you don’t care about yourself, never did.

Taking a step back is all it takes to cross the imaginary line, just in time for you to avoid the trajectory of the bottle coming straight for your head in an explosive fit of anger you’d anticipated, if not quite in this intensity. The bottle smashes into the wall, contents spilling evenly across white wallpaper and a pricy carpet. Big Boss locks onto you the same instant, toppling over his chair when he lunges, and as much as this is going to hurt - at least the violence and the utter disregard for other people’s property is more like him.

You don’t resist when he rams you into a bookshelf, only raise your arms to shield your face. He punts you into the ground, has you pinned there like a dead butterfly within seconds, your own arms limp and spread. You feel his weight on you, thighs clenching around your waist. His hands on your throat. You can’t swallow. Or breathe -

“You want to know what’s wrong?” He growls, commanding your attention. Your hands lay themselves on top of his wrists on their own accord, and you have to actively fight your survival instinct to not try and throw him off of you - _that_ would be defiance. You do not defy him, you _can not_ defy him. Even when he’s about to kill you.

“This - I should have done this ten years ago,” he says. Your eyes start to roll back in your head, your vision growing dark and blotched around the edges.

“But I listened to Ocelot. My own body double? Sure, why not. And where did that get us? _Fuck Ocelot._ I’m sure he’d be laughing if he saw us right now. Don’t look at me like you didn’t know this day would come.”

You did, always. Even when he’d lied to you that it wouldn’t. But again, it’s not yourself you’re concerned about. Your Boss has always been a dangerous mix of practical and emotional, and this - this is the control he’d fought so hard to obtain slipping from his grasp. He holds on to it violently. You feel his hatred like it’s your own, and your grip around his wrists becomes lax, your hands laying themselves on top of his instead.

“I’m going to do it myself. That’s the least I owe you for so many years of unconditional service. It’s not ideal. Not going to draw the kind of attention I want, but I’ll work around it.”

Ah.

This is his way of thanking you. By inconveniencing himself in the way he disposes of you. Whether or not it makes sense - you accept it. You’ve died for him once before, and you’ll gladly do it again. Your eyes drift shut as you use up the last of the oxygen in your lungs and you futilely try to lace fingers with his, add to the pressure exerted on your throat.

You’ll just fall asleep like this, with him on top of you. That’s all you ever wanted. Before long, the pain will be gone for good. It’s already dulling, and so are your senses. There’ll finally be peace.

_\- Fight._

_I’ve served my purpose…_

_Why aren't you fighting!?_

_I can die now, without regrets. I gave him everything I had to give. He'll_ _be fine without me. Someday we’ll meet again, on the other side._

_I SAID FIGHT_

A fist crunching into your jaw jolts you back into consciousness. You greedily, reflexively gasp for air, and Big Boss punches you again, harder this time, splitting your lip.

“Coward,” he snarls under his breath, with contempt. You’re not sure who he means. You don’t understand. Another punch to your temple, loosening the shrapnel, and then the weight lifts, and you’re being kicked in your ribs. You groan and roll onto your side, curling in on yourself and frantically sucking more air into your lungs.

You hear him drag himself over to the armchair, putting it back in its proper position before flopping down into the cushions. Turning your back to him, you shed a few tears, silently; feeling shaken, afraid, and frustrated. You swallow all of those unwanted emotions down, but the feeling of helplessness is threatening to crush you from within.

There’s something he needs still, but you don’t know what, or if you can give it to him.

A minute passes, then you hear his voice again.

“I, uh…” He sounds calmer now, if a little shaky. You hear the metallic click of his zippo, when he repeatedly tries to ignite the flame. Smell the cigar smoke starting to waft through the room.

“I need to disappear for a while. Cipher’s onto me, and I have something good going on in Zanzibar Land… we’re winning the war. It has the potential to grow into something even bigger than Outer Heaven. An actual nation - a _country_. We’re talking tens of thousands of citizens, all of them soldiers and mercenaries. This is a game changer. Do you even know what this could mean?”

You’re still on the ground, bleeding, barely able to breathe.

“Not just for Cipher, or for me, but for the world? If Big Boss were the president of his own country, rather than just the pawn of some government - the kind of signal that would send.”

You listen, and begin to - have to - follow his train of thought. What he meant was that Outer Heaven was obsolete already, and that he needed more time. Another rabbit for Cipher to chase.

“They already suspect Outer Heaven is my doing and want me to take it down. To prove my loyalty.” He chuckles. “Well, they didn’t say that, of course. But we’ve played this game for a long time now, and Kaz is bad at it. Then there’s the twins. I’ve already crippled the British one - you know, Eli… but the other one - the one they put into FOXHOUND for me to polish - he’s malleable, and potentially useful,” he continues on, talking about his own genetic children like weapons.

“But he’s naiive, and has no real combat experience. He has that innocence in his eyes. Trusts me too much. I only need to break him, and he’ll understand.”

You finally manage to lift yourself off the ground, and onto your knees. Big Boss is still rambling absentmindedly, like he’s talking to himself - and in a way, he is. You’re just here to receive his thoughts. Big Boss doing business with Big Boss.

“You see, I had it all planned out. Every piece fit perfectly, but then I … I called you for our next meeting to discuss all the details, but then I realized that it wouldn’t actually be the next.”

 _It would be the last._ He doesn’t look at you, hasn’t done so since he started talking. His expression turns wistful.

“And I - kept rethinking the plan for weeks, trying to find another solution… I don’t really understand it myself. I know what the most practical course of action is. I know what must be done. I knew it from the beginning. It wouldn’t be a problem if it were Kaz, EVA, Fox, hell - Ocelot. Sure, I’d be grumpy for a day, but I’d get over it. Something about it feels nostalgic, too, and I fucking hate it.”

“You… don’t know what to do,” you find the words that have eluded Big Boss, summarizing the situation.

“…I guess.”

He doesn’t say anything else, after that. Just smokes his cigar and broods, mulling over his own indecisiveness. Another thing that doesn’t suit him - your Boss is always in control of the situation, and a man of action. He does what needs to be done. He doesn’t compromise, doesn’t spend a lot of time considering the pros and cons. Doesn’t hesitate.

But sometimes, his emotions get in the way. Sometimes, having control - being able to choose - is more of a burden than it is a relief. Taking responsibility for your actions and the consequences. It’s a feeling you know intimately, finding yourself utterly lost when you don’t have a firm hand to guide you.

\- There’s one thing you haven’t given him. The way you are now, he has no use for you. You know exactly what he needs, but you’re not sure if you can bring yourself to act on this impulse.

_But I'm the only one who can._

He’ll hate you.

_Doesn't matter._

You know him better than anyone else. And weren’t you made just for this? To take his mantle when it becomes to heavy for him? When he becomes aware of his own loneliness? Your needs don’t matter. Never did. Never will.

He tsks, grinds his cigar out on the coffee table. “Ridiculous. I’m going to take a cold shower and then we’ll start over. Maybe I just need to release some steam. If has been almost a year, hasn’t it… get undressed in the meantime.”

“…Yes, sir.”

He pushes himself out of his armchair and walks past you, towards the bathroom door, and starts to unbutton his shirt. Broad back turned to you. You eye the broken bottle he’s hurled at you, light catching in the sharp, pointed glass. He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders.

He’ll hate you.

But if you do nothing, he’ll hate himself more.

You grab the bottle and launch yourself at him, aiming for the throat.


	2. Tails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eyyy its the return of reluctant alpha bottom bb

That was a lie. You _can_ defy him, if it’s in his own best interest. You can assume any role you have to, be any person he needs you to be. He’s made sure of that. You’ve been his doctor, his shadow, his legend, his slave, Himself, and you can also be his master if that is what he needs, at that time. You’re no longer paralyzed by the atrocities he - and effectively, you - are able to commit, and you can do it with open eyes now. You know where to find and how to access that switch trauma has given you both. Flip it at will.

You’re completely in control of it and yourself.

He’s not.

He didn’t see your attack coming, but his reflexes act independently. He catches your wrist, and you catch the horrified expression on his face a split-second before he twists your arm until you drop the bottle and then he hits you hard, forcing distance between you both.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask you what you’re doing, or why. He can’t comprehend the fact that, right now, you are hostile - can’t process it quickly enough to produce words. His survival instinct is kicking into overdrive and sapping all of his energy.

That’s alright. No need for words - he talked enough before.

He waits. Gauges your intentions, what you’re going to do next. You move in to attack him again to make it unmistakably clear, coming at him with your real strength. He dodges and counters, quickly scans the room for his jacket, the holstered weapon covered by it. You ram into him before he can reach it, knocking him right through the glass panel and out onto the balcony.

Like an amateur. You could point out every single mistake he’s making. There’s a cut above his eyebrow from the glass, and he blinks the blood out of his eye when he gets back up, tries to kick your legs out from under you at the same time. You knew he would. You grab him by the collar and drag him back inside, pin him against one of the decorative columns in the room, and drive your bionic fist into his stomach, still covered by the same artificial scar. He begins to reel and topple over, the blunt force momentarily taking his ability to breathe, but you keep him where he is, upright, and do it again, harder this time. He can’t defend himself, fingers buried in your shoulders, instinctively holding onto _something_.

A third punch in the gut has him wheezing and collapse in on himself when you finally let go of him. He’s not passed out - it takes a lot more than that - but he won’t be able to put up much of a fight for a while, his body occupied with mitigating the pain and regaining the ability to just breathe.

That’s more than enough time.

“It’s so easy,” you muse aloud, and step on his hand when you see it sneaking towards one of the many glass shards scattered across the room. “Did that ever occur to you? I know your weak points and I’m stronger than you. I could’ve taken you out any time I wanted. All that’s kept you safe is your unwavering belief that I wouldn’t. What was that about trusting too much…”

“I’m going to fucking _kill you_ ,” he grates out, needing several attempts to pull out his hand from under your crushing boot. Of course he chooses to waste the little breath he has on empty threats. Shouldn’t he be used to betrayal? He’s an outright expert when it comes to that, on both sides of it. “I’m going to rip that horn right out of your head and shove it down your throat -”

“Are you? I doubt it. You had plenty of chances. Maybe _I_ _’m_ going to kill _you_.”

He seems to consider that. Considers it hard enough to not offer an immediate retort, and you leave him there. You go for the suitcase he’s brought, open it. You already know what’s in it, between white shirts and folders labeled ‘classified’.

“But I might as well have a bit of fun first. Have you ever been on the receiving end of any of the sick shit you do to people? Wait, I know that already, don’t I? Of course, ‘cause I’m you. I know all about it.”

You lay out a couple of things on the bed, then take a single bundle of hemp rope. By the time you’re back with him, he’s managed to sit up, and struggles when you sit down behind him and attempt to collect his wrists. You seize him by the neck and slam his face into the blood stained carpet. It buys you enough time to crudely tie his wrists together on the small of his back, but he’s still determined to make it hard for you. You could do better than this, if you had the time and a more willing subject. Takedowns are dependent on speed, and immobilization of arms. You know he will attempt to use his head and legs when he has a chance, and you brace yourself for it.

But first he tries another strategy.

“I’m ordering you to stop what you’re doing,” he says firmly, and you pull him up by the remainder of rope you’ve tied twice around his torso in a simple harness. You’ll have to expand on it later.

“Ahab. You are violating your mission parameters. Something’s wrong with you. We’ll get Ocelot to fix—”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” you snap, bury your hand in his hair, and yank at it. He gasps, shuts up, sharply inhales through his teeth when he feels your even breath at his ear.

“I gotta wonder, though. Did you say the same thing to her? ‘Something’s wrong with you’? Did you order her to stop?”

You feel him going rigid, and throw your crimson arm around his neck before he can say anything, squeezing down. Just a little, enough to be obstructing his speech. You lower your own voice, and sneak your warm hand around his torso, down below his navel and belt, groping the soft package between his legs. He pretends like none of this is getting to him, but you know better.

“Did you have a choice then? Do you think you ever did? Did you even care?”

You see the sweat glistening on his forehead, beading at his temple. You massage him through his pants, grip firm but still teasing - tempting. You know what he likes. Between violence, misery and death is where his arousal sparks, shamefully. It doesn’t matter who’s in control. His hips unwittingly bucking forward is testament to his interest.

Good. You relax your grip on him.

“And where did that passivity get you? Jack-”

\- too soon. Of course he’s not turning docile just by having his dick fondled. The moment you address him by name, he headbutts you brutally, hard enough to send you onto your back and give you a bloody nose. He pounces you immediately, using his legs if he can’t use his hands, positioning himself strategically: one leg blocking your bionic arm, the other knee on your throat, crushing it.

He’s going to try and break your neck. Suffocate you if that doesn’t work.

“Don’t ever call me that,” he snarls at you, fuming mad. You don’t doubt he’s going to kill you for sure, this time. If looks alone could kill, you’d long be dead.

“Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like this - you traitorous, absolute piece of _shit_ ,” he continues, as you choke beneath him, thrashing about to no avail. He’s got you good this time.

“You’re nobody. _Without me_ , you’re nobody - gonna send you right back to the hell they dragged you out of - ”

You claw at the ground until your fingers find something sharp, and pointy. You stab into Big Boss’s flank with the shard, distracting him enough to exert less pressure on your wrist and neck, and you manage to successfully throw him down as you roll over.

The legs, then. You consider breaking his kneecaps while you flip him onto his stomach, mounting his legs. No, you want to save the real pain for later, and you’re not looking to completely incapacitate him.

This is nothing a well applied blade couldn’t fix. You quickly draw it from the hidden sheath at your boot, and mercilessly drive it into his thigh. He screams into the carpet when you twist the handle.

“Same treatment for the other leg, if you keep this up,” you warn, pulling him up an inch by his mussed hair to spit at his face.

“And you’re sending me nowhere.”

At last, he stills, and you pull out the knife as you stand, wiping the blade clean on his pants before you sheathe it again. The fabric of his slacks turns a deep shade of red where the wound is. You know that this isn’t much of an injury for him, but it’ll greatly reduce his ability to fight you off from here on out, and sap some more of his strength. Not that he won’t try anyway, but at least you warned him.

You go and gather more rope, as well as some duct tape. You hear his ragged breaths and feel his eye on you, watching you move about.

“None of this suits you, you know,” you say, looking around the partially destroyed suite and considering your options. “All of it stinks. It’s gonna rub off on you.” A thoughtful pause. “But I can see why you picked this room.”

“Release me,” he demands again. You know he’s never going to beg. He won’t even pretend. In his mind, he’s still the master and you’re the subordinate.

“I’ll forgive you if you do it now.”

“Oh please,” you chuckle, and start tying a rope around each column. You’re both more used to suspension, but you doubt that the chandelier would withstand his weight. “Don’t lie. Your manipulation doesn’t work on me, either. I don’t need your forgiveness.”

You hear him give an angry snort. You saw right through him, and he obviously doesn’t like it. You continue preparing the necessary ropework. You can string him up vertically between the two columns so he’ll be forced to stand and keep his balance, all the while remaining unable to escape. You’re not going to make it comfortable for him. He’s never made it comfortable for you.

And she also never made it comfortable for him, besides.

He groans when you return to him and pull him back up onto his knees. He’s not fighting back this time, thankfully. He’s lost some blood. Must be feeling woozy.

You sit down in front of him and start tying a proper harness. You don’t risk untying the old one, although it’ll most certainly bruise him. He skeptically watches your hands work.

“Who are you working for?” He asks you, when you are halfway done. “Cipher? Kaz? Ocelot? Someone else?”

That’s what he thinks this is? Of course - that’s the only thing that makes sense, in his mind. A double agent.

“Myself.”

_You._

“No.”

You secure the remainder of the rope, after securing him. He’s not stupid: he knows physical force alone won’t get him out of this anymore, and it’ll take a long time for him to not want to escape. He’ll resort to other tactics. He’s resourceful.

You touch him - not with violence in mind, this time. Your hand freely roams his abs and chest, touch him without his permission. He lowers his head, uncomfortable, but he knows you’re not going to stop, and he still doesn’t beg. So he simply endures it, tensely. Lets out a sigh, tinted with minor surprise, when you poignantly rub your thumb over his nipple, before pinching and finally rolling it between your fingers. You watch his reactions carefully. He wants to show you as little as possible.

You click your tongue. “It really is a shame that,” you say, and unbuckle your own belt to have a little bit more space down there. Your bionic hand strokes over your own bulge through the fabric. “If I were to kiss you now, you’d rip my tongue out of my mouth.” You pinch him harder, and pull. He grits his teeth.

After five seconds, you let go, and punch him in the stomach. He falls forward, and you push his face into your crotch.

“And this? Not a good idea, either.” You give him a violent shove forward as you stand up. He says nothing. His silences never last for long, though, and you tear off a piece of duct tape to place it over his mouth, as much as he tries to avoid it. His teeth are the only weapon that he has left now, but you just took that away, too.

“Get up.”

No reaction.

“Jack.”

He bristles visibly and scowls up at you. That’s a reaction.

Yeah, you know how to get under his skin, in every sense of the word.

You still have to pull him up yourself, disregarding his injured leg and how painful just standing and carrying his own weight is for him. He brought that on himself; he should know when it’s better _not_ to put up a fight. When to seize an opportunity that presents itself.

You signal him to move between the columns, but he stoically remains standing where he is. Naturally. You grab him by the neck, and do it yourself. It’s just a few steps, but he’s still limping.

“How did she string you up, I wonder,” you end the silence, picking up one rope and attaching it to his harness, pulling it taught until he’s literally leashed too the sturdy interior piece. Then you do the same with the opposite one, checking that both ropes are equally taut and have the same tension, so that he’s trapped in the middle. Like a spider web. He can still lose this balance like this, but he won’t be able to sit down, much less escape. Whole point of this exercise. The rope will do a good job of keeping him steady.

“Certainly not in a fancy hotel room. Hmm. Upside down at least once, I’m sure… Out in the snow near the wolves, in the desert by a snake pit, in a sinking ship? To a driving truck? By your feet. Or was it your cock? Am I on the right track?”

Of course, he says nothing. He wouldn’t even if he could. You work open the clasp of his leather belt as you talk, slowly. Pull down his sullied 200$ trousers and branded boxers until they slide down his legs and pool around his ankles. Won’t need any of this anymore. The right side of his body is painted a generous crimson from the injuries you’ve already given him.

You grip his limp cock, pulling at it once, hard enough for him to take a tiny step forward, and then back again as you round him to regain his balance.

“Handcuffed to a table in an enemy base camp?”

He clenches down immediately when your hand slides between his ass cheeks, denying you access. Anything else would surprise you. That’s fine, though. You have the whole night.

You remove your hand, considering your options again. You’ve been exposed to him and his twisted creativity often enough that ideas come to you naturally, and plenty of them.

“Be a good boy and stay right where you are.” You can hear him scoff behind the duct tape, and you pat his thigh. Before you disappear into the adjacent bathroom, you turn off the aircon and draw the curtains shut. With the glass panels partly smashed, you don’t foresee the rising temperature to become a problem.

The bathroom alone is the size of an average hotel room, including a jacuzzi with a built-in TV and minibar. _Seriously._ But that’s just dandy, because you don’t have to search long to find something you can use -  an empty ice bucket, stainless steel. Two minutes later, you return - your subject in the exact same position you left him in, head lowered.

But you know better. You place down the bucket in front of him and inspect him. There’s the thinnest tail of fresh blood running down his clenched fist, barely visible; some fibers of the rope at his wrist cut into.

“Open it.”

He doesn’t, and you strike his wounded thigh, dig your fingers into the cut at the same time you pry his fist open. A bloody shard of glass falls from his hand eventually and you kick it across the room, far out of reach. Must’ve picked up and hidden that during your scuffle earlier.

“You know any unsuccessful escape attempt will intensify the punishment you have to endure,” you tell him what he already knows. But it’s not the pain he’s afraid of. The pain he can handle, it’s what will be done to his mind - that’s what he wants to turn his back to, and run away from. Not this time.

You need more rope. You take another, smaller bundle, and unravel it when you sink to your knees next to the bucket. His cock is the next body part of his to be restrained as you wrap it around his base, first, and then grab his testicles, pulling them down and stretching the sensitive skin between. He watches you, brow knitted, laying multiple rows of rope over his balls, binding them off. You finish with a firm, secure knot.

At the other end of the strand you attach to the bucket’s handle, pulling it up enough to dangle from his genitals. It’s not very heavy on its own, but that’s going to change soon.

Before you move on though, you indulge yourself a little. There’s no need for _you_ to restrain yourself, and having his fat dick in front of your face isn’t helping matters. You grab his bound cock and let your tongue play with it, shoving it into the exposed slit at the tip before you wrap your lips around him, sucking him off slowly, with relish - unmistakably for _your_ enjoyment, not for his. His hips quiver anyway, and you hear him heaving through his nose. Your eyes drift shut.

You love his cock. You love how it tastes, how it helplessly pulses and grows in your mouth.

\- Enough now, before you lose focus. You stand and wipe over your mouth with the back of your hand, swallowing down the gathered saliva.

“I don’t approve of your drinking. The stench,” you tell him, displeased. Trying to forget about the persisting burn in your cheeks. “You can smell it for miles. Makes you reckless, too. How much did you have?”

He was on his fourth bottle. You wander over to the fridge, and find two more. It’s all beer and very little water, so it’s not like he just happened to drink what was there: he very clearly requested the fridge to be stocked like this.

You take them. Crack them open with your knife, and pour the contents into his cockbucket.

That’s were it starts getting uncomfortably painful for his balls. “Sorry. Some ice?” You add facetiously, get two scoops from the ice machine and let them drop into the bucket. He winces, his legs trembling subtly under the strain.

“I want the rest in there, too,” you whisper against his cheek, slotting your bodies together. Fingers curl around the base of his cock, massaging and coaxing. He understands. He understands what that means for his balls, too.

You slap them once when you remove yourself from him, and he flinches. The heavy bucket sways back and forth beneath him like a pendulum. It’s only a matter of time - you don’t have to do anything.

You gather a bottle of water, his zippo and cigar case and make yourself comfortable in the armchair he had occupied earlier. Drink half of it, then light yourself a smoke, spread your legs, and shove your hand down your pants. You watch him intently as you jerk yourself, but he never once looks at you. He keeps his head down, his face obscured by his own messy hair.

He looks ruined and gorgeous, but not broken, although it would be so much easier for him if he allowed himself to break under the strain. His skin is glistening with both sweat and blood but he still tries to suppress any trembling, any outward sign of internal struggle. Keeping completely still. Why?

It’s just you.

“Do you still think you have any control over what happens to you?” You ask him. Your hand dips lower, covering your own balls, squeezing them. Pulling.

“Or to me? I’m in control now, Jack.”

He obviously doesn’t want to hear any of it, and tosses his head to the side defiantly, his neck and shoulders tensing up. You sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

The clock displays 21:44 when you light your second cigar, and Jack still hasn’t given up control of his bodily functions. You decide to help him with it while simultaneously following up on that botched escape attempt earlier. You leave your swollen cock alone for now and instead go over his toys, picking one you know to be among his favorites. You’re tempted to ask him where he gets some of these - you know it’s not part of Ocelot’s standard interrogation loadout, preferring subtler methods - but given his current predicament and general stubbornness, there wouldn’t be much point to it.

You weigh it in your hand. His Dragon Tail, long and dangerous, with an exquisitely painful bite that could effortlessly tear through skin, an experience you are all too familiar with. You’ve never handled it yourself, but you watched him often enough, and mimicking him comes naturally.

You wordlessly run your cold steel prosthetic down his spine. He shudders. You reposition his wrists a little so you have more surface to work with, then grope his muscular ass possessively as you blow some smoke into his face, the heat too close to his eye for comfort. He craves a smoke himself to regain some calm, but what you’re about to give him is something else.

One advantage of residing in an executive suite is that it provides you with ample of space for your tool. You position yourself behind him, take a moment to get the distance right. Your first few tentative flicks are aimed at the bed, received with dull thuds. That’s enough practice, and you seamlessly transition over to working on him, the next strike aimed low, at his thighs. The thin leather lash connects with the skin close to his injury, and both the sharp slap and his physical reaction are extremely satisfying to you.

That’s all the incentive you need to continue, and intensify your treatment.

You work your way up, covering his thighs in quickly blossoming welts first, in a steady rhythm. You don’t need much force; the whip and your wrist do most of the work for you. He grinds his teeth together and you bite down on the cigar hanging from the corner of your mouth. The red becomes a darker shade, more pronounced, and the next one hits his ass with a much louder crack. You see him clench and unclench his fists, steady his stance. You pause.

_One, two, thr--_

A quick, heavy lash hits him when he exhales the breath he’s been holding, and you hear the first, muffled groan behind the duct tape.

He didn’t seriously expect you to grant you some rest, or follow the rhythm, did he?

No. Rules are for cowards.

You pick up the pace, telling him nothing. Work on his thigh and ass until every inch is swollen and discolored, and the skin starts to break under the assault, adding fresh blood to the crusted. Sometimes you hit a piece of furniture to confuse and surprise him, and he still flinches every time he hears and _feels_ the braided leather slice through the air.

When he begins to struggle with his balance - reflexes urging him to dodge even when he can’t, tensely standing on tip toes, body curving forward - you start aiming higher, at his scarred back and shoulders. He hasn’t lost any muscle with age, but his skin, though calloused, is as breakable as any other man’s. Your aim becomes more and more precise, making it possible to hit the same spot multiple times in quick succession, making him bleed faster. You don’t let up, drawing a pattern on his back with your whip. Blood catches in his spine, travels down, soaked up by the rope and disappearing between his cheeks. At some point, he starts to scream and sob and shake uncontrollably, but it’s all subdued. You don’t even hear it. You just hear the melodic slap of leather against skin, captivated by that pretty contrast and how it spreads.

Does he feel like an artist too, when he does this?

A noise that doesn’t quite match the scene registers with you - the trickle of fluid. You stop, and let go of the whip handle almost instantly. You step to his front, and watch the urine flowing from the tip of his dick into the bucket, adding to its weight. Adding to his own pain, gravity stretching him more. He’s lost control of his bladder.

That’s progress. But it’s hard to judge how much more you have to do, or if this is enough. His cheeks are still dry.

“There, there,” you say, feigning sympathy, taking a moment to tip some ash off your cigar, into the bucket. You reach for another tool resting on the mattress, one you know intimately.

“I still can’t believe you kept this.”

Actually, you can. It’s just like him to take weapons from dead people, because that’s how much they’re worth to him. You wipe over his blood-covered back with your flat palm, all the way down to between his ass cheeks, and try to push past his rim. He’s not as quick or strong this time, but still clenches shut, tries to push your fingers out again vehemently, hissing all the way through.

 _Be that way. You_ _’re only making it harder on yourself._

You replace your fingers with his baton and ram it straight into his too-tight hole, tearing through any resistance. He gargles and screams behind his gag - probably bit his own tongue -  convulses violently and falls forward. You hold onto his harness, bouncing him back and keeping him right where he is, even with his legs failing him. You are forcefully impaling him, using the weapon as a battering ram against his sphincter, pumping your hand repeatedly.

Blood drips from the handle. You can’t get it all the way in, no matter how hard you push. You see him shake his head.

_BE THAT WAY._

You pull out, thrust forward to extend the baton, and smash it against his dick. He might still be in control of his asshole, but certainly not of most of his other body parts and reactions. He’s positively howling in pain, trying curl in on himself futilely: you still have him secured by the rope harness, and you strike his most sensitive area again and again, hitting his injured thighs if not his abused cock and testicles. The bucket swings in the same tact of your assault, some of its contents spilling over the rim.

You let the steel baton drop to the floor with a muffled _bang,_ reaching for the rope between his legs instead, stopping the jerky motion.

Jack can barely stand. It’s the rope holding him up, for the most part. You hurriedly undo the knots around his balls, and he whimpers when he’s freed of the rope bondage and cockbucket. You take it. Return to his rear.

And splash all of its contents over his still bleeding, sore, sensitive back. He collapses a little more under the renewed burn, body rocked by sobs he fails to swallow.

You’re not done yet. He doesn’t get a break. You carelessly toss the bucket aside. Pluck the almost burnt out cigar from your mouth when you circle him again. You bury your fist in his hair and pull him up, forcing him to look at you.

Now his cheeks are wet. He stares back at you with a mixture of terror and hatred. You can see his heart pounding wildly in his throat.

“Are you proud of yourself?” You gather saliva in your mouth and spit at him. It ends up as a thick glob in his already bloodshot eye, blinding him momentarily.

“Do you think you don’t have a breaking point? Every man does, Jack. Every. Single. One.”

When he manages to open his eye again, he stares right at the glowing, burning end of your cigar. He freezes when it draws closer, panting, shaking uncontrollably.

You won’t do that. It hasn’t broken him the first time.

An audible sigh of relief escapes him when you pull back. You remember seeing thick candles on the coffee table. Jack doesn’t look to worried when you return with one of them, holding your smouldering cigar to the wick to ignite it. He probably assumes you are simply going to work a bit more on his back, and that he can handle. He regains some of his composure, firmly planting his feet on the ground again, determined to carry his own weight.

He’s wrong. You grind the used-up cigar out against his ballsack, and his eyes roll back in his head when he spasms, briefly.

You play and torture his nipples while you wait for the wax to melt, the flame held forebodingly close to his abused - and unsurprisingly for you, _semi-erect_ \- dick. He’s not avoiding your gaze anymore, he challenges it. You ghost your fingertips over the length of his cock, and you notice how his lid lowers just a fraction, how his stare becomes duller, his cheeks hotter. Flushed with something that isn’t exhaustion.

He can’t lie to you. Can’t hide his shameful arousal. He knows it, too, but he tries anyway. Because _this_ … this is too private even for you to see.

You dip your robotic fingers into the wax, impervious to the heat. You apply it to his nipple, and he shudders in response. It hardens rapidly. You raise the candle and tilt it enough to drip some of it over his torso, his heaving chest. He leans back an inch. Every drop jolts him, and you’re sure there’s pleasure mixed into those jerks.

Until you make it clear where the focus is. You stroke his dick a few times, grip it firmly at its base, and coat it in red, hot, burning wax.

This time, you see the tears, feel his half-assed attempts to pull away from your grip and the pain. When one side is covered and hardened, you bend him enough to work on the uncovered parts. He won’t stop shaking or grunting. You pull back his foreskin as much as you can and when you drip some of that liquid fire into his slit, he gives a long, stifled, agonized moan.

Must feel like an eternity, to him. The clock only reads 22:26.

You blow out the candle, toss it onto the bed. The resulting smoke is enough to make Jack open his eye again, just in time for him to catch you drawing your knife again with a self-assured smile on your lips.

He’ll never beg. Not with words, but you see the pleading in his eye, and genuine fear. You handle his wax-crusted dick delicately when you run the flat side of your blade back and forth on it, scratching the surface, carving it off, millimeter for millimeter.

“Hold still,” you say.

He steadies his breath and posture.

You guide the pointed tip of your knife to the tip of his cock. Hold him firmly when you insert the blade into the tiny hole, just an inch. Twist and rotate. Loosen and carve out the wax.

You’re careful, but you cut superficially into his sensitive flesh, anyway, a bit of blood dropping from his glans. The noises he’s making are something else. You eventually replace the blade tip with your fingernail, pushing deeper down into his stretching urethra, up to your second knuckle. No resistance, naturally. You watch his expression carefully, his twitching brow and eyelid. You fuck his cock shallowly, back and forth, back and forth.

He moans, desperately. There’s some pressure against your fingertip, and you pull out.

_Got you._

You already suspected that he didn’t empty his entire bladder. What’s still left trickles out of his dick now, not much, but enough to cement his loss of control. You rip the tape off his mouth, taking some of his facial hair with it, but that’s not even pain to him. He gasps for air.

You shove your piss and blood covered fingers between his lips, adding saliva to it. He doesn’t bite. Good. You slide the blade underneath his cock, press it against his ballsack and keep it there as a reminder, positioning yourself behind him.

You slide your fingers into his bloody asshole. The muscles are much more relaxed, this time, granting you easy access. You push the spitlube deeper into him and pull your own cock out of your soaked boxers, big and hard.

“Spread your legs more.”

He does. You sandwich your dick between his cheeks, and pull at one of them, to watch yourself slide into him. You’ve been wanting to sink your dick into this hole the whole damn evening. And _Christ_ , he’s tight even without clenching down. It’s your turn to moan, but the pleasure is clearly overshadowing any pain you might feel.

You take your time, rutting against him. You want to enjoy him, and you want him to feel his violation, be fully aware of it. Be aware of him finally breaking down, allowing it to happen - knife against his dick or not.

You’re taller than him. You pull his ruined back against your torso while shoving your hips harder against his. No resistance whatsoever. You hear him panting softly, and you do the same, close to his ear.

“You’re letting me fuck your ass like a little whore,” you whisper, mockingly. “There’s nothing else you could’ve done. Accept that it’s going to happen.”

He doesn’t reply, but you feel it, how he’s bucking against you with what little strength he’s got left, chasing after the pleasure that’s at the core, enclosed by the pain.

“Slut.”

You press a kiss to his temple and accelerate your pace, slamming into his lose hole harder and faster. You’ve never possessed his kind of stamina, and it doesn’t take too long for you to finish, hips stuttering and pumping his ass full of your seed. You moan freely, and give a deeply satisfied sigh as your orgasm floods over you and then ebbs away.

When you pull out, your thick cum trickles out of his spread hole, down his thighs. You wipe your fingers through it and it give him a taste, shoving them back into his mouth, and this time, he licks over and through them.

Still drunk on your own climax, you wrap an arm around his hips from the front. He looks heavenly. Soft and pliable. You press yourself against him, seek his mouth out with yours, sharing breath, kissing, taking what you cra—

His teeth are in your bottom lip.

You try to pull away like you’ve burned yourself, but he clamps down, makes you bleed, determined to keep you where you are. A punch against his stomach doesn’t help.

Only your knife does, driven into the other leg. He screams, lets you go.

You pull out, but he’s still standing, despite the fresh blood gushing out yet another wound. More blood is painted over his chin and yours.

He looks at you darkly, his silence speaking volumes. And you - you step closer again, undeterred. Press his forehead against his, your knife back against his waist, above his cock, where his scar ends. You are both tired, hurting all over. Heaving. He doesn’t even react when you shallowly sink your knife into the skin that has grown over the embedded wire. He knows what’s going to happen, and does nothing to dissuade you.

You step back and rip it out of his chest, blood splattering against your jacket. He screams himself hoarse until your ears ring. Gutted open, that’s what it looks like, and for a moment you’re not sure, are those his guts spilling out? No, no that’s just in your head, it’s only a flesh wound. His legs can’t hold him anymore, and like in a trance, you begin to cut away at the two ropes still holding him up, until he falls to his knees. He’s not going anywhere.

You drop the knife, the wire. Pull him up by his hair again, shove his face into your crotch.

“Bitch,” you slur, and piss over his face. He screws his eyes shut but opens his mouth to get the air he needs, and you slam your cock right in, past his soft palate, pissing down his throat. He gags violently, choking, lacking the strength to do anything beyond trying to keep himself conscious.

You start fucking his face before you’re done urinating. He’s very nearly suffocating, but that doesn’t stop him from fucking your cock with his mouth and tongue, pushing against you even now. Your hips are overpowered by his determination soon enough, voluntarily choking himself on your cock, sucking you off like a goddamn whore. You fist his hair, struggling to keep another orgasm at bay.

Your cock slides out of his mouth and he licks over and sucks on your balls. You feel his teeth.

You keep your testicle. You moan wantonly, and so does he, around your dick, bobbing his head without pause. Forcing it as deep as he can - taking it all. He’s an eager slut for you.

He’ll never just lie back and take it. He was never that kind of person, and that’s not something you can change. Or can you?

You pull him off your dick and kick his shoulder. He lands on his back with a grunt.

“Down,” you bark at him, and he stays down. Looks up at you, expectantly. His cock is fully grown, throbbing and unsatisfied. Leaking both precum and blood.

You want it.

You get rid of your jacket, your shirt. Hastily yank down your jeans and any other fabric that might get in the way between you and him, and you almost trip over your own feet as you mount him. You spit into your hand to quickly finger your own hungry hole open; he spits on his own cock so you can messily spread it along his length. It doesn’t matter. You’d fuck him dry if you had to.

You line his cock up with your opening and slam your hips down against his. You feel remnants of the hard wax on his cock, scraping painfully against your insides with every stroke. You grind him into the ground with all of your weight and raw strength, trapping him between your thighs.

He never tears his eyes off you. Not even when you lean forward and place your hands around his throat, massaging in the same unrelenting rhythm you shove your hips back and forth, riding him.

He’s so close. You see it in the way his eye starts to lose focus, the way his breath hitches and thrusts his hips upwards, erratic. You are, too.

“B - oss -”

You hear him croak, out of breath, at the brink of his orgasm, and he stiffens all over. You feel him pulse and spill inside you and soon after, you join him, gasping and shuddering when his cock rubs your prostrate to bliss.

Good. You broke him. Again.

You sigh, satisfied. Lift your hips and let his shrinking, spent cock slide out of you. You remove your hands, lie down on top of him. He’s still breathing.

You kiss him again, claim his mouth. This time, he kisses you back. Slowly, lazily. Reserved.

You lead.

You kiss a gentle trail up to his ear.

“Leave it to me,” you murmur, and he replies, half-dead, “Okay.”


	3. Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bad end

The first thing he did after you removed his bindings was pounce you, slash your stomach open and rip out your V-shaped wire.

Didn’t kill you, though. Probably because he was out like a light after using up whatever little stamina he still had left. You’ll be the first to admit that you deserved it - and with you, he never leaves debts unpaid. He collects what’s due, makes you feel everything he had to feel, as much as possible, like a clockwork mirror.

It doesn’t make cleaning up the mess any easier. You don’t even bother salvaging the room - both of you are just going to discreetly check out tomorrow and Jack’s probably using a fake credit card attached to his fake passport, anyway. In the name of national security, anything goes. And if not, it’s at least fun to imagine him trying to explain the damage charges to his accountant.

Who’s probably Kaz.

Oh well.

You have more important stuff to worry about. Like dragging Jack into the bathroom and dumping him in the jacuzzi, because the shower definitely isn’t big enough for you both, and you might find yourself murdered after all if you force him to stand another minute. You position him in one of its seats and fill the tub with warm water which doesn’t stay clear for long, immediately taking on a pinkish color. You sit down at the edge, dip your feet inside, and start to carefully scrub him clean with a washcloth. He comes to when you arrive at his chest, eyes fluttering open. You pause and brace yourself.

He sees you. Acknowledges and recognizes you.

What he ultimately does, though, is feel for the built-in remote and turn on the TV. Switches through channels until he finds the local late-night news, which you don’t understand because they’re in Afrikaans.

Alright.

He doesn’t object when you squirt some shampoo into your hands and start washing his hair, massaging his scalp in small circles. Douse him with the showerhead, careful not to set the pressure too high or have any of the shampoo end up in his eyes. You return to his body after that.

“Lift your arms,” you tell him, and he lifts his arms. You wash off all the dried blood at his sides, gently clean out his wounds before moving onto his back. His reactions are almost non-existent; he’s probably been wrecked like this more times than he’s years old.

59 this year. Been a while, hasn’t it.

You prompt him to lean forward a bit. His backside is so messed-up you don’t even know where or how to start. You get to work. Jack, meanwhile, turns on the bubble jets to give himself a massage. Of course.

“Some of these are going to scar,” you comment, carefully dipping your cloth into a particularly large cut. Something about this feels weirdly satisfying, knowing that he’ll be wearing scars _you_ ’ve given him, although you’ve never been an enemy of his.

“You don’t sound disappointed.”

You don’t, not really. Technically you’ve already given him a scar some time ago - it wasn’t real then, but it’s going to be now, from what you can tell.

When you’re done cleaning him of the worst, you do the same for yourself, but much quicker. Mostly your face and stomach. You can tell by the images that the TV program is covering civil warfare developments in the region, and you change the channel to a rerun of a football game. Jack doesn’t object or try to change the channel again.

You sink down into the water, wash your hair. Try the bubbles. It’s not so bad, actually; rather nice. You’re tempted to close your eyes for a moment, but leave it to Jack to address the elephant in the room.

“What are you going to do?”

You haven’t decided yet, although your heart already has. Not because of any selfish desire or because you’re afraid of death. You watch Jack getting a pair of champagne glasses from the minibar and, to your surprise, a bottle of apple cider. He pours some for you both.

You just don’t want to leave him alone.

You take a glass and lean back.

“I guess we’re going with your plan.”

“Oh?”

“Sure. Sounds like it’s already underway, anyway. Am I wrong?”

Of course it is, and his look says as much. It’s only the details that can be adjusted - and the final outcome. He nips quietly at his glass, not appearing too convinced.

“As for what happens to me - well, that’s a tough one. I think I’m just going to toss a coin when the time comes.”

“You’re shitting me.”

You kind of are. But you can’t make any promises - unexpected variables can always pop up. Never be too sure about a mission. You’ve never even fucking _seen_ the boy, for starters, but you seriously doubt that he’s able to take _you_ down when even Big Boss can’t.

“Am I? Leaving it to chance seems like the most sensible decision that can be made. Head, I fight and live. Tails, I lay down and die. You can always blame bad luck in the end, no matter the outcome.”

No, he’s not convinced at all, corners of his mouth curled downwards, accentuated by a deep frown. You’re prepared for the cider bottle being hurled in the general direction of your head any second now. It never comes, though. Seems like your therapy was effective enough.

“What about edge?” He brings up a very important point. You hum thoughtfully, and tell him in the most serious tone you can manage: “If it ends up on edge, I’ll just leave all that mercenary shit behind, and kidnap you to a small hidden island to live a hermit life. …Double hermit life. You know what I mean.”

You managed to make him laugh, at least. “That’s never going to happen.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Neither of you has that much luck. It’s when you notice him shifting uncomfortably that you take the glass from his hand before it falls into the water. That’s enough relaxation and luxuries to last you both a lifetime.

“Come now, it’s time I took care of your wounds.”

You finish your bath and climb out of the tub. Jack still has problems standing and walking - both of his legs injured, courtesy of your knife - so you have to support him the whole way through. They certainly won’t have healed up until he’s back in the US, so he’ll probably have to make up some stories about negotiations gone awry. That’s not too out of character for him, though… You’re pretty sure Kaz, at least, knows what’s really going on and who he tends to meet up with once or twice a year. Not that he can do much about it: Cipher is still unaware of the existence of two Big Bosses, and there’s no tangible proof.

Maybe the lie will have resolved itself in a year from now.

You help him towel himself dry, and he does the same for you. It completely catches you off-guard when at some point, he just says, “I don’t want you to die.”

He’s not really the type to say out loud things that don’t need to be said. Which just assures you that this is really

 _really_ important to him.

“I know.”

“I never told her.”

“I know, Jack.”

He falls quiet after that. You rub the towel over his face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a good thing you’ve gotten into the habit of bringing medical supplies, because Jack rarely does – spares you an uncomfortable conversation with the hotel staff, too. Most of what’s in your duffel bag is just that, and something about that feels strangely nostalgic - when he sits down on the bed with you behind him, the only piece of furniture still relatively unharmed and clean. A little island in the middle of a battlefield.

You meticulously disinfect every gash on his back, apply ointments and band-aids and bandages. You apologize every time he flinches. The larger open cuts, of which there are thankfully only a few, you stitch close. You still know how to do it, even if your bionic hand doesn’t.

Eventually you ask him to turn, lay on his back as far as he’s able. He props himself up on his elbow and keeps watching you. You work on his chest and wrap bandages around his torso, then dedicate yourself to his legs.

You glance at the clock. It reads 1:06. You both need some rest, sleep. He has a long flight ahead of himself, and you, a long drive. You expect him to fall asleep while you’re working, but he seems to keep himself awake.

You’re almost done. Just his genitals are left. They’re bruised, some blood vessels popped, patches of black and blue, but it’s nothing too serious. You decide not to do too much - some soothing gel will be just enough.

You’ve done this so many times before, in the early days. You can be professional. You can examine his body head to toe - still sculpted, still powerfully erotic - and not act on any of your impulses. You can fondle and stroke over his soft dick and not want to see it grow. He’s badly injured. This is the last thing he needs.

You blink the sweat out of your eye. You’re acutely aware of Jack’s judgmental stare. Why isn’t he sleeping already?

“Why are you hesitating? That’s not what I would do.”

He knows exactly what’s going on in your head. Always knew, and of course the blunt bastard has to call you out on it.

“You always presume to know what’s best for me. I’m sick of it. You want to fuck me and I want to be fucked. Who cares if it hurts?”

…Yeah.

“We still got some time. Better use it.”

But you’re gonna do it the way YOU want to do it. Not ‘his’ you. Your ‘you’, and that you wants to worship and make love to his body, not damage it further. As much as you appreciate rough play, the really good thing about it is how much sweeter it makes anything that follows after that.

And if he’s anything like you, it’ll be the same for him.

You tighten your grip on his cock and begin to stroke it. Slow, gentle. In no rush, despite what the clock says.

“I don’t just want to fuck you,” you say. “That’s never what this is about.”

Whatever transpired between you earlier has done nothing to eliminate his ability to get hard in any situation. You feel him grow in your hand, a little more with each lazy pump and twist. Your hand glides easily thanks to the gel you applied. He looks at you with hooded eyes.

“No? Could’ve fooled me.”

When he’s big enough, you sink down on your stomach and guide him back into your warm mouth. He hisses when he pulls his own arms out from under him, resting his weight on his back, but it’s just like he said - who cares if it hurts.

He’s so devoid of tension now, both his mind and body give under you. No force needed. His quiet gasps and the spurts in your mouth, that’s what it’s about. When he closes his eyes and unwinds and concentrates on the pleasure, instead of what’s going on out there in the world, trying to figure out ways to survive it.

The hand in your hair. The way his legs drift apart on their own. The squealing of the mattress when you bob your head a little more urgently.

“Ah, shit - “

When he lets go. You come back up just before he’s about to climax, your timing impeccable. He deflates with a frustrated sigh, arching his hips towards your warm palm.

“Hm. Look how fuckable you are after a good beating. I should’ve done that sooner,” you smirk, sliding your hand past his ballsack, down to his rim, prodding and teasing it.

“Shut up, just - “ He tries to think of a better retort, but fails - it might be because of your fingers shoving into his lose hole and stretching towards his prostrate to massage it. “Shut up…”

You do. You’re happy enough just listening to and watching him. You could do this for hours, denying him every time he comes too close and subject him to a different kind of torture. You’re not gonna do that, though, and instead are determined to find out how many orgasms you can actually give him within an hour.

No, you’ve never been good at restraining yourself, but fuck if you’re not gonna try.

“Feel good?” Well, judging by his engorged, throbbing cock and the amount of precum beading at the tip, it’s highly likely. That’s not taking into consideration his erratic breathing or soft moaning, every now and then.

“Your cock. Put your cock in,” is how he answers your question, gasping it out. It’s an order you comply with all too gladly.

You’re careful, when you reposition him and his legs. Roll him over so he lays on his side, taking some of the strain off his back, and lift his leg to rest on your shoulder. You crawl closer until your privates align and guide your cock into him, the whole length until your balls touch. You roll your hips, slide it in and out, try to find the most pleasurable angle for him.

“Fuck,” he pants, beautifully. “Fuck, that’s good. It’s _good_ -”

 _Forgot how good it can feel, didn_ _’t you. Or did you just not allow yourself to feel it?_

You lean down to cover his open mouth with yours, and kiss him. He kisses back enthusiastically, and forgets to swallow. Drool is running down his chin soon enough, and it’s rather adorable, you find. You’re focused solely on him, his pleasure, his flushed face and strained expression as you keep grinding your bodies together.

He comes quickly, untypically. Doesn’t even warn you: he just starts to clench and claw violently at the sheets, making unintelligible, guttural noises when he, as you correctly assume, is rocked by a dry orgasm. He starts to fumble, feeling for your wrist, holding onto it.

“S… stop,” he croaks, “stop. I just came.”

Ah. Must be sensitive.

You don’t stop, and instead relocate your hand from his knee to his cock, which deserves some attention.

You press your lips to his ear, smiling. “Nah. Who cares if it hurts, right?”

“Fucking - V, I swear - “ He trails off, whatever he wanted to say broken up by a moan when you slam harder against his ass and start pumping him simultaneously.

Yeah. If it’s in his own best interest, you are definitely capable of ignoring whatever he has to say.

You fuck him deeper into the protesting mattress, and his next orgasm is not so dry, leaving your hand covered in streaks of white. You still see no reason to stop, despite his shortage of breath.

“P, please,” he stutters, helplessly, pushing him through his second climax and towards a third. His prostate must be swollen and sore.  “Please stop. Stop. St—”

You shove your tongue into his mouth. So this is where he starts to beg - when it feels _too nice_.

“Shh. Don’t think. Just fly.”

He searches for your eyes. Holds onto the certainty in them, if nothing else, and tries to find it in himself to truly, completely, unconditionally trust you.

He comes a third time. He no longer begs you to stop after that.

 

 

 

You do stop when you’ve noticed that he’s drifted off, sleeping soundly. The clock reads 3:13. The alarm will go off at 8:00. You spend the rest of the night cleaning up, packing his case and your bag. You fetch some eggs and sausages from the buffet in the morning and you eat breakfast together without exchanging words. Big Boss’s cab arrives at 10:00, and that’s the last time you see him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Outer Heaven, South Africa_

_1995_

 

The basewide self-destruction countdown displays 9:14 when he calls you for the last time. You don’t pick up. Not immediately.

Nothing went the way you planned it. Half your base is dead, the rest evacuating. Metal Gear’s destroyed. DD’s dead. Outer Heaven’s done. The boy lives.

But you know that none of this means anything to him. He’s always been ready to sacrifice it. No, that’s not why he’s calling you - to tell you how badly you fucked up. Not where this is concerned.

The thing is, you’re stuck here. You’re not gonna survive, that’s a fact. You know exactly why things aren’t going the way you expected them to go.

You’ve been puking your guts out since this whole operation started. Spent more time in the infirmary than at the command center, to treat a harmless cold. At least you thought it was a cold. The analysis of the blood sample your doctor gives you tells you something else.

_Did you not wash your hands often enough?_

_I know you don't_ _want to hear it, but we need to quarantine your part of the base._

_No matter what you do, don't_ _go facing the intruder yourself. Rest as much as possible. Take antibiotics._

What are the chances, really. Edge doesn’t sound like such an unlikely possibility, now.

You rest your feverish head on the table. You can barely walk, but you’ll go face the boy, in a minute. Cut off his escape route and give him the trauma of his life, make him want to kill himself. Make sure Big Boss goes out in a blaze of glory, to make it look real. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The radio’s still ringing incessantly. Fine.

_Fine._

You flip the switch.

“- the fuck are you doing. Everything’s fucked. That’s not how I - shit. Just get out of there. Now.”

His voice sounds different. You don’t answer.

“Did you hear me? Answer me, asshole. I can hear you breathe. And if that’s you, Snake, _surprise_. I’m going to fuck you up.”

Hah, no doubt. 8:58.

“ _Ahab._ ”

Five seconds pass, ten. You just can’t bring yourself to answer him. You don’t want to waste the few minutes you have left arguing with him, explaining to him why you failed him. Because of something so mundane. Big Boss can’t be brought down by an _illness_ , of all things. He would never just lay down and die like this.

You hear him slam his fist into the table on his end. Then, silence. You squeeze your watering eyes shut. You know what he’ll say next. Concise, and full of vitriol. Pain.

“…You lied to me.”

_Don't, please._

“How fucking dare you. You betrayed me. _You left me._ ”

_That's not what this is, Jack._

“I don’t forgive you, you hear? I will never forgive you.”

You’re already dead.

“I hate y—”

You flip the switch, turn the radio off, and go.


	4. BONUS

More amazing art!!! I'm truly blessed... 


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